


The Grave

by bouncymouse



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, One Shot, Short One Shot, Turks (Compilation of FFVII), Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24286927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncymouse/pseuds/bouncymouse
Summary: He reaches out to comfort her and his hand hovers, unsure. He’s never been any good at this. He still can’t find the words.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	The Grave

He stands in front of the grave. It’s freezing cold, and the rain has started to fall.

His breath forms vague patterns, shadows in the frosty air.

 _How fitting,_ he thinks, jamming icy fingers under his armpits to ward off the chill. His sodden red hair clings to his brow as he frowns at the tombstone in front of him.

It’s tasteful. Simple. It lacks gaudy decoration and sentimental words. Just dates and a name chiselled carefully into the stone.

 _That’s all it boils down to in the end,_ he supposes. He’s surprised just how emotional he feels. There’s an uncomfortable heat in his bright blue eyes that threatens to betray him. _Fuck that,_ he thinks. _Turks don’t cry._

They stand beside him. She hovers at his left elbow, wringing slender fingers in agitation. There’s a flush of colour in her pale face. Pain, anger. He knows her heart is breaking, but he doesn’t know what to say. There aren’t the words to tell her how much this hurts him too.

Rude puts his arm around her shoulder and she crumbles a little more. His face is drawn, and he needs to shave. Behind his shades, his eyes are tired. They’re tired from long nights scrutinising every tiny detail, every face, every thread that could explain how they came to be here.

Here in front of this grave.

 _We’ll find them,_ he thinks. _We’ll find them and we’ll make them pay. Nobody messes with the Turks._

Elena breaks. She sobs. It’s a sound he doesn’t recognise. She’s usually so strong, so bright. Now she’s broken. Small.

He doesn’t know what to do. He reaches out to comfort her and his hand hovers, unsure. He’s never been any good at this. He still can’t find the words.

His hand drops to his side, fingers skating through the chilly air. He almost touches her, almost pulls her close. But he knows that tiny gesture, that fractured piece of kindness, will be the thing that breaks him. _Turks don’t cry._

“He was one of us,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper, and it cracks before she gets the words out.

“The best of us,” Rude agrees. He squeezes her a little tighter.

Her tears fall freely now. They mingle with the raindrops that roll down her cheeks. He wonders about Rude’s eyes, hidden by the shades. The heat in his own is overwhelming, and his face is wet too.

This doesn’t seem fair. He wants to shout and scream. He wants to fight, but he can’t. None of them can.

A shadow falls across the ground. It’s a distraction from the ache in his chest. He turns and sees the man approach. His face is solemn, his suit pristine.

The dark eyes are hollow.

He does it then. Reaches out. His hand grazes her arm. It’s the lightest brush of his fingers, to show her he understands the tears that are tumbling down her cheeks.

 _Turks don’t cry,_ he thinks, _but they aren’t supposed to die, either._

“The President needs us.” Tseng’s voice is calm, utterly composed, but his eyes are hard. He’s hurting as much as they are, but he won’t let them see it. Not now, not ever. “It’s time to leave.”

Rude nods curtly. One last squeeze of his calloused fingers and his arm drops from Elena’s shoulders. She wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket and he sees the tick in her jaw as she grits her teeth. She puts herself back together, piece by piece.

Before they leave, they place his goggles on top of the stone. No gaudy decoration or sentimental words, just a nod to the Turk with the sarcastic smile.

They turn and leave, one by one. He watches them long after the last dark suit disappears through the iron gate.

He stands in front of his grave. It’s freezing cold and the rain continues to fall.


End file.
